All Day

by Liza Jessie Peterson

  Facts.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Paradigm Shift

  I never imagined, in a kazillion-billion-million fantasies, that in my lifetime, I would ever witness a Black man elected to actually, really, truly be president of the United States of America. I never dreamed it possible for a Black commander in chief, leader of the world’s most powerful nation, to be living with his very Black family in the White House. And never did I think I would be so excited about a president being inaugurated that I would take three personal days off from work and leave the boys to travel to Washington, D.C., just to watch it in person. Puuuleease! Hell, I’ve never even watched the presidential inauguration on TV. It’s always been white man, white man, white man, year after year after year. Same ’ole, same ’ole. Sooo not interested. But this was different. Very different. I made sure I left detailed, specific lesson plans for the person assigned to substitute my class while I was off witnessing history. No freestyling while I was gone; I didn’t want my boys to skip a beat.

  “That was fucking surreal. I’m still numb, it’s so overwhelming,” Gary says as we exit the capital city and veer onto I-95 North, headed back to New York. “And I gotta tell you, I had a fear that he might be assassinated during the inauguration—I kept expecting something to happen.”

  “Word,” says Ajamu. “I had that same anxiety. Like, okay, when is America going to show her fangs we know she has? I think every Black person felt that collective fear for Obama’s life. Shit, Black folks know more than anybody how America gets down.” Ajamu is a visual artist and shaves funky, artful designs on his head; a beautiful Black nappy canvas. He used to be a barber and traded the clippers for a paintbrush but still cuts fly.

  “Well, I know one thing, the country will never be the same, ever. I feel hopeful. I know that sounds corny, but I actually expect better and more for our people… and for the country, like, in a real way,” Gary admits. “Kinda the same feeling I had coming out of the Million Man March. Something huge has occurred. I really think this is just the beginning.”

  “It’s a lot to digest. I’m kind of speechless. And you know a bitch like me always has something to say. It’s a lot to think about… the implications of Black excellence on the national stage. The shit is fucking awesome,” says Ajamu’s wife, Nucomme, jumping in. She’s a singer and social event producer who runs a grown and sexy after-hours speakeasy joint in Brooklyn. No signs, just a peephole and secret password. You gotta know somebody to be somebody, to get in. Authentic, clandestine, old-school underground New York–style. Nucomme’s a modern-day maven, a “big-titty saloon broad with a razor tucked into her cleavage” kinda chick. Raspy voice worn down by whiskey and full lips painted red, framing a soft, southern smile. Reminds me of my girls from Philly… honey-on-the-blade pretty tooth-chippers.

  I lean my head against the window. “I thought a Black man would be elected president ‘when hell freezes over,’ and yesterday damn sure felt like the coldest day in history. I guess America froze over, huh?”

  “Word,” says Gary. “It was so cold, it was bizarre. Kinda ironic. I gotta admit, seeing so many white people cheering him on, people of all races, children, old people, families… everybody smiling and so happy for this Black man and for our country, was very validating. Very encouraging, like that ‘hope’ shit is real. A great moment and movement in history is happening. It’s going to take me a while to really process it and properly articulate what this means,” says Gary.

  “Word. I just wants to sleep right about now; shit wore me out emotionally,” Nucomme comments as she leans on her husband’s shoulder to take a nap.

  “Gurl, who you telling?” I turn up the music slightly, bumping on Gary’s dope playlist. A Tribe Called Quest has us head nodding at the moment.

  It seems as if every car we pass on the interstate has an Obama bumper sticker. All of them are positive except for one sticker that says NObama written across an image of the Confederate flag. I roll my eyes at the driver. Gary honks his horn.

  “There’s white people, and then there’s crackers we, unfortunately, still have to contend with.”

  “Fuck ’em,” I reply. “We won this round. Can’t allow them to steal our joy.”

  “Word.”

  We aren’t nearly as talkative driving back as we were driving down the night before the inauguration. There isn’t the guitar-playing, singing, and shit-talking excitement from last night. All of our brains are unraveling the layers of profundity we’ve experienced, and exhaustion is definitely setting in. I’m glad I took a few days off, including tomorrow, but I can’t wait to share my experience with the boys. My sinuses are congested and I keep sneezing. I’m sure I caught a cold. Dammit. But it was worth it. I couldn’t miss this. I had to see it. I had to see him. I had to be there to witness this mind-blowing, paradigm-shifting mojo moment in history. The energy feels atomic. The planet is buzzing, I’m sure of it.

  My mind is dancing wildly with colliding thoughts jumping all around like an Afropunk mosh pit. Something in me has significantly shifted. I am so inspired to take a risk, to change. Seeing Barack and Michelle Obama strutting down Pennsylvania Avenue as Mr. and Mrs. President, literally right in front of my face, reflected the immense possibility of my own dreams. It challenged me to push beyond my fears, my self-imposed limitations, and my consciousness of lack that was holding me back from greatness. Shit, my president is Black. The impossible is possible.

  The Obamas are a huge breakthrough. Change is here. Barack is fearless. Michelle is bold and beautiful. Yes we can and yes we did. Everything is resonating. Witnessing such a grand parade of excellence and seeing a far-fetched fantasy-dream manifest right before my very eyes has awakened something fierce in me. I feel brave again. Clarity is coming into focus and now I get why I came. This inauguration is about me. I came to be reminded and encouraged. It’s about my breakthrough, my change, my fearlessness, my bold, my beautiful, and my dream coming true. The universe is speaking to me through the Obamas. Yes I can and yes I will. Nothing is a coincidence. This is another sign.

  As the New York City skyline comes into view, I sit up and yawn, happy that we’re almost home. Gary is now playing Biggie Smalls and turns the volume way up, ’cause it’s Biggie, which triggers an instant-reflex, heavy head-nodding, shoulder-shake swagger dance in my seat. Notorious. I’m convinced New York has a powerful force field that gives you an energetic charge upon the mere sight of the shiny skyscrapers and bright lights that decorate the shimmering Big Bling Apple. New York, New York, so nice they named it twice.

  Yellow taxis and gypsy cabs beep and bully us as we veer onto the Brooklyn Bridge. My mind drifts back to Rikers and I think about some of the changes that are taking place at the school.

  A week before I left for the inauguration, word on the grapevine was that the principal, my buddy Phil, was resigning. There was some skullduggery going down in the superintendent’s office and Phil was being pushed out. I didn’t know the details, nor care to inquire. As far I was concerned, Phil was good people. He gave me a shot at becoming a full-time teacher, which rescued me from the brink of having to “Tootsie Roll on the pole” to pay rent. It’s sad to see him go because he’s one of the rare and few administrators who really supports the methodology of arts and education to enhance literacy, and I believe he genuinely cares about our kids. Phil’s leaving was such an abrupt changing of the guard that I think this too is yet another sign from the universe. It’s time to quicken my departure date from Rikers.

  There’s a new “interim” principal on board. This makes resigning even easier. I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me, it’ll be easy. I’ll call Kathy at Friends of Island Academy and let her know I’ll be a free agent in two weeks, see if she offers me a job. I’m sure she will. I already feel a weight lifted.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Hardest Part

  I walk into class and Shahteik blurts out, “Took a lil’ vacation, huh, Ms. P? Well it sure was pleasant not hea
ring you nagging us all damn day!”

  Aww, my Lil’ Rumbles missed me, I think to myself. Then I playfully roll my eyes at him.

  “Psyche, Ms. P, lemme stop playing ’fore you get all crazy and start yelling for real. You went to see the president though?” Shahteik inquires.

  My throat hurts and I’m hoarse. I struggle to talk at an audible decibel. “The inauguration was absolutely fabulous. It was incredible. Historic. I got to see the president and first lady up close when they got out their limousine and walked down Pennsylvania Avenue. I had a really good spot at the front of the barricade. Millions of people came out. It was something to behold.” I sound like an old barfly with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her bourbon-stained lips.

  “Yo, Ms. P, you lost your voice?” asks Raheim.

  “Yeah, she was probably screaming Barack Obama Barack Obama, wasn’t you, Ms. P?” Malik jokes, imitating my voice.

  “I was screaming, I was crying. I witnessed history. A Black man is president of the United States of America. A Black family is moving into the White House. Everybody out there was crying when he took his oath and gave his speech. I don’t think you truly understand the magnitude of what just took place. You will in time, though. Oooh, but it was cold as a brass monkey. I got sick.” The term “brass monkey” draws some chuckles.

  Malik, aka Far Rock, is donning a fresh haircut. He’s such a handsome kid. Looks just like my nephew, Tyler.

  “Ay yo, Far Rock,” Rashid calls out to Malik, “when we see that nigga Shams, we gonna give him the brass monkey; knock that nigga out cold.” Rashid demonstrates a knockout punch.

  “Watch that word,” I say instinctively.

  In an instant they have taken something old, “brass monkey,” and remixed it to create a new metaphor. They are something else. I love these badass lil’ boys.

  Rashid, aka Leaky, is no longer wearing his dark gray sweatshirt and pants but has on state-issued khakis. He must have had court and been sentenced while I was out. The pants are too long for him, and even though he’s rolled them up several times into a thick cuff, they still manage to drag off his heels. The thug hobbit flashes me a smile, proud of his creative new slang.

  Shahteik is now out of his seat and one of the fairly new kids, Diaz, is casually eating a Pop-Tart like he’s home. Just brazen.

  “Shahteik, sit down. And my brother, you… yes, you, please put that Pop-Tart away. You know better than that. No eating in class. The sheriff is back; don’t play with me.”

  Shahteik puts his fingers to his lips: “Ms. P, shhh, watch your voice; don’t talk so much.”

  I squint my eyes and glare at him. “Boy, don’t shush me.”

  “What? I’m looking out for your voice, my Nubian Black queen. Can’t a brother have your back? Shhhh, be easy. That’s all I’m saying.”

  The class snickers and Raheim adds a dose of his own sarcasm. “Word, Ms. P, relax. Take care of your voice—we wouldn’t want you to lose your voice altogether now, would we?”

  They’re on a roll. “If Ms. P lose her voice for real, that would be music to my ears,” Malik comments, leaning back in his seat with his feet up on the desk, hands clasped behind his head like he’s lounging on a La-Z-Boy recliner.

  “Boy, if you don’t get your feet off that desk!” I am straining my voice at this point.

  “Shhhh, Ms. P!” he replies dismissively.

  My hand flies on my hip and before I can open my mouth, Malik says, “Psyche, psyche, psyche,” quickly, in an effort to avoid my wrath. He switches the subject back to the inauguration. “You saw the president for real though, Ms. P?”

  God, they know me so well. “I sure did. He and Mrs. Obama walked right in front of me. They were about the distance from me to you. They are a beautiful power couple. Michelle Obama is divine… and the president is fine. I’m just saying.” The class grumbles and sucks their teeth. I laugh, enjoying their jealousy. They tickle me.

  “Ms. P, next time you decide you gonna take a lil’ vacation and whatnot, you run it by me. Don’t be leaving us like that, ya heard. Had a nigga thinking you wasn’t coming back. Three days is a little much,” Malik yells out, half-playing, half-serious.

  The boys depend on me so much. Telling them I’m leaving is going to be incredibly hard. I’ve been avoiding it all morning but I know I’m going to have to eventually break the news of my departure. Here it is I finally got the battery in my back to make the huge decision to leave, opting to roll the dice and focus my attention on my artist, but I can’t muster up the courage to tell the boys. Being back in the class with them, a doubting thought of am I doing the right thing flashed into my head. But it was immediately overrun by a quick inventory of signs that affirmed my brave decision in the first place: the panic attack, the exhausting, draining schedule, running into Kathy from Friends of Island Academy, the new rubric malarkey, Phil leaving, and hearing President Obama talk about change, leaps of faith, and making the impossible possible. There’s no doubt in my mind, I’m out, but when it gets down to the nitty-gritty and I have to tell the boys, my knees start knocking and I am momentarily stuck-on-stupid. I only have two weeks left before my last day and it’ll be here before I know it. I don’t feel like telling them today. I’ve already been gone three days and they’ve missed me. It can wait.

  Lord knows I don’t want to abandon them. They’re going to be so angry and disappointed at me for leaving them. These boys have endured broken promises and chronic abandonment with people coming in and out of their lives all their life. And now here I come, loving them up and then jumping ship. I know they’ve grown to trust me and rely on me. And they care about me too. What’s going to happen to them when I go? Who will stand in the maternal gap for them? Who is going to love them the way I love them? Who will inspire them? Will the next person give a fuck about them and really want to see them learn? Will they keep the standards high and demand it? Who will nurture them and challenge them and know how to balance the “iron fist in a velvet glove” approach? Because I know my boys need both.

  I have become attached and territorial. I am not looking forward to breaking the news to my funky, dusty lil’ rug rats at all. But I have to leave. I am an artist and, as much as I love these kids, I can’t stay confined in prison. Damn, this is so hard.

  Clarity is a blessing and, as difficult a decision as it is for me, I am crystal clear. I sashay into the new principal’s office with confidence. It’s my first time meeting her, which makes handing in my resignation easy breezy. Our conversation lasts all of three minutes. She gives me a firm handshake, thanks me for my service, and wishes me “all the best.” Wow. I did it! I’m outta here. Deuces.

  An entire week has gone by and I still haven’t gotten the courage to tell the boys. But today is the day. I must. It’s Monday, and Friday is my last day. That will give us five days to slowly bring closure. I sound crazy saying that. These are my babies though.

  “Guys, so, I have an announcement to make. Um, this is really difficult to say to you guys…” I pause and fidget with my nails.

  “Yo, Ms. P, just spit it out. What’s good?” Rashid says and gives me a look like, “Come on already!”

  “This Friday is my last day and the hardest part about my decision was thinking about y’all. Because, believe it or not, you guys, each and every one of you, really mean a lot to me and I really, really care about you…” I clear my throat and swallow the lump rising in it. They give me blank stares.

  Shahteik jumps up and cuts me off. “Yo, Ms. P, I’mma remember your Poof. When I go upstate, I’mma be laughing about that shit.”

  His comment prompts a bunch of “Word… word, son.”

  He broke the ice and lightened the mood. I love that rascal. Amazing how he’s grown on me and seeped into my skin.

  Raheim blurts out, “Hell yeah. Ms. P went crazy!” Then he imitates me doing my Poof, stands up and yells, “Poof, Poof, Poof!”

  The entire class joins in and begins Poofing me. This is
my official rug rat salute.

  Malik is not Poofing me. He remains seated just shaking his head. He’s not smiling, He’s clearly not feeling the news. I want to explain to him why I have to do this and how much they have helped me to grow and that I really do love them. I want to tell him that I will continue to pray for them and root for them. Malik deserves more than an announcement. They all do. By now, Peanut is standing up and doing the Harlem shake, prompting the class to cheer him on.

  “Go Peanut, go Peanut!”

  “Boy, sit down,” I say, laughing

  “Ms. P, can we listen to the radio today?” Peanut asks, still shaking.

  I smile and get the radio out of my locker.

  “Yes! Thank you, my Black Nubian queen.” Peanut gives me a military salute and a bow.

  I let them listen to Weezy all afternoon because I think they could use some comfort music. Seeing them happy and cooled out makes me feel good. I tell them to do independent reading without any talking, which I know is a joke. So I make it clear that any loud talking will guarantee the radio gets deaded. I wasn’t serious, but I had to say it.

  Malik is still brooding. He hasn’t said anything to me or anyone since my announcement. He has his nose buried in his favorite book, The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. I want to do something special for Malik. I’m going to write him a letter. While the guys are pretending to work, I sit at my desk to compose Malik’s letter and decide I should probably write something for all the guys. They deserve it. After I finish writing Malik’s letter, I start writing each rug rat a personalized student evaluation/inspiration letter. I need to leave them with something tangible and they need to know how much I believe in them.

  As I am writing their evaluations, Shahteik plops into the conference chair next to my desk holding a checkerboard on his lap. “Ms. P, nobody can beat me at checkers, nobody. Not even you.” This is an invitation and a dare.